


Watching Brief

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Got My Eye on You [23]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Don't copy to another site, Drug Use, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Gen, Janine Hawkins - Freeform, Lady Elizabeth Smallwood - Freeform, POV Greg Lestrade, Paternal Greg Lestrade, Post-Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Watson Honeymoon, Where's Mycroft when you need him?, marriage changes people, wiggins - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2020-09-08 04:29:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20310910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: With concern and fear, Lestrade watches as Sherlock spirals out of control during and after the countdown to the Watson wedding.





	1. Changes

## Changes

"The hair of the dog," announces Greg as he deposits a pint of bitter in front of John. He then slides into the booth across the table and takes a long pull at his pint whilst surreptitiously watching the doctor.

To Greg's eye, Watson looks like he's no longer hungover. Probably the benefit of being in the army; he has a fast recovery time. Or perhaps he's one of those doctors who manages a cocktail of over-the-counter drugs to overcome the worst symptoms. Whichever it is, the doctor is looking much better than he did yesterday morning, when Greg had rescued him and Sherlock from the drunk tank at the Hackney Downs station.

With a smirk, Greg says, "I know how the stag night ended, but how on earth did you two get so plastered? I've never seen Sherlock drunk before. He's usually very measured about his intake."

"Yeah, well, he had this awful thing about scientifically measuring our drinking, only a certain number of centilitres per stop, even made the barmen use a graduated cylinder—you know, like out of a chemistry lab—so I secretly spiked his beer with whisky every chance I got."

Greg imagines the scene just described, chuckles, then starts to laugh outright, building up to a guffaw. When he's got his breath back, he's able to ask "_Why_?!" 

"I've never seen him pissed as a newt, and I've always kind of wondered what he'd be like. Think of it as an experiment. He's used me as a test subject often enough."

"And what was the verdict?"

"It was fun. He's a lightweight when it comes to drinking, so we were home well before closing time. Totally legless, he was funny. Not at all sloppy; if anything, more relaxed, just sort of… sweet."

The doctor takes a sip of the bitter, now that the head of foam has dissipated. "Well, except for the one time when he got rowdy. That was in The Howl at the Moon in Hoxton; he got into a shouting match. He overheard someone talking about a guy called Ash, and misunderstood it as being about tobacco. You know he's done that thing of his, obsessing about two hundred different kinds of ash? Well, he picked a fight about an ashtray, and I had to pull him away before he clobbered someone or got hit himself. We were kicked out. He swears he didn't know the next one, The Glory at Haggerston, was a gay bar; just the closest pub to where we caught the killer standing over the body of his wife—The Dalston Digger, remember him?"

"Yeah, of course, I do. He was the guy who dug up three women's bodies from the New Gravel Pit Burial Ground and then forced his ex-wife to watch him decapitate them before he killed her. Your blog entry was a hoot."

John smiles into his beer. "I didn't know you read the thing."

"Of course, I do. Half the bloody Yard follows it so if I didn't, how would I know how to fend off all the snide comments about Sherlock that get thrown at me? Anyway, how did you two end up in police custody?

"I think it was the landlord of the flat where the client took us; he objected to Sherlock throwing up all over his carpet. It was fun trying to watch him do his deduction thing when he could barely see straight."

Greg tries and fails to stifle a laugh. "You should have been arrested for being _Drunk in Charge of a Consulting Detective. _By the time I got there to bail you two out, the actual charges had been dropped. I suspect big brother had something to do with that; probably bought the guy a posh new carpet or something."

John downs a third of the pint before answering. "Just glad I didn't end up with another entry in my criminal record; the ASBO was bad enough. Mary would not have been amused at a drunk and disorderly, as well."

"How's she coping?"

"With the wedding, me, or Sherlock?"

"All of the above."

"She's good… Amazing, really, when you think about it. It's kind of weird in one way; they get on remarkably well."

"And how's Sherlock coping?"

"What, with the hangover?"

"No, I meant generally. With the whole wedding thing. Did he tell you about my fiasco with his speech?"

John's face betrays the answer, even before he shakes his head. "No. Please tell me that he's rehearsed something with you and you told him it's so god-awful that you helped him re-write it."

Greg snorts. "Well, I was in the middle of cracking the longest-running unsolved case I've had for years—the Waters Gang—and he sends me a text begging for help. He's never asked for my help before, and I freaked out, thinking that someone must be attacking him at Baker Street, so I dropped everything and rushed over there, with full back-up, expecting to find him at the mercy of an assassin or something. Turns out to be a bad case of writer's block; he was trying to do the Best Man speech—said it was the hardest thing he's ever done. I felt like a right plonker."

"I hope you told him what Mary and I have been saying; just raise a glass to toast our health and sit down. I know he's scared witless of having to give the speech."

"You do know why he's subjecting himself to this torture?"

"What do you mean?"

"You can't actually think he's enjoying this wedding planning lark?"

"He's coping with it better than I am." John starts fiddling with the spare beer mat on the table.

"Second thoughts?" Greg lets his incredulity show.

"No, not about Mary. It's just the wedding seems to have become… I don't know… sort of too big an event. I don't want it to change things. It's like Sherlock has become obsessed with every tiny detail, to the point where he is spending more energy on it than on The Work, if you can believe it. In one sense, I'm glad that someone is—apart from Mary, of course—but I swear if I have to eat one more sample of wedding cake, I'll scream. She says she wants to dance the waltz, and suddenly he's teaching me how to dance and writing a composition that he's going to play on the violin." He rolls his eyes. "I've let loose a monster."

"He's doing this because it's his way of…" Greg stops, not sure how to explain this in a way that isn't going to upset the doctor. Rather lamely, he finishes the sentence, "I don't know how to explain it."

"Try."

"Maybe it's best to think of it as his way of apologising, for not realising how upset you would be when he left."

"_Left_?" John's eyebrows shoot up his forehead. "That's what you're calling it? Christ on a bleeding crutch, Greg; he made us all think he'd killed himself!"

"My point exactly. You're still pissed at him for that."

"I've forgiven him."

To Greg's ears, the statement is a tad grudging. "Not the same. You may have forgiven him, but you're still angry."

John sighs and drinks the rest of his beer down in one swallow. Thumping the empty glass back down on the table, he mutters, "Yeah, well, maybe." He then looks away, catching the eye of the barkeeper, raising two fingers to signal another round.

John sniffs. "Time to move on and stop talking about the past. In a week's time, I am going to be a married man. Whatever else happened as a result of his lying, it meant I found Mary. I'm determined to have a go at this."

"Well, don't look at me for advice. Been there, done that and have the alimony scars to prove it." 

As the second pints arrive at the table, Greg turns the subject to the real reason he'd asked to see John. "How do you think Sherlock is taking it… You being married, I mean? He seemed pretty out there, on edge, when you and he showed up at Ryder Lane and had to deal with the elephant in the living room*."

"It got even worse when Mycroft booted us all out of there. In the taxi back he wouldn't talk, then suddenly bailed out, leaving me to pay the fare. He was in a right snit. All I know is that something is not right between him and Mycroft, but he doesn't want to talk about it."

"When's he ever wanted to talk about his brother?"

John's initial thirst must have been quenched because he is sipping more slowly at his second beer. "I've never understood their relationship."

"History…."

"What's that supposed to mean? And don't give me that little mantra of his, _that was then, this is now._ Being a Holmes means being cryptic, but from you, I expect better."

"Mycroft has been responsible for him, more a parent than a brother from an early age. Sherlock is enough to try any man's soul, let alone a control freak like Mycroft. They're bound to rub each other up the wrong way."

"He is who he is. Trying to control him is the worst possible strategy."

Greg can't help but smile. "Yeah, you and I know that, but it isn't easy for Mycroft to accept it." 

"For a while, after Hartswood**, I thought they were back-talking to one another, that a sort of truce had been declared. Now, they seem to have reverted to not talking to one another at all, not even by shouting."

Greg snorts. "That's when I _really_ start to worry; at least when they're verbally abusing each other, I know things are normal. Are we talking danger nights here? Do you think he's using again?"

The question makes John look up, startled. "I don't know… I don't think so, but I don't live with him anymore, so I'm not best placed to judge. When I see him, he seems fine—well, fine by Sherlock's standards. Do you think he isn't?" 

Seeing the concern that is etching a frown on Watson's face makes Greg frame his words carefully. "I don't know. Something's got him worked up; he's like a coiled spring. I'm starting to worry about danger days, not just nights. Maybe it's the sense that everything between you two is going to change because of the wedding." 

John rolls his eyes. "Not you, too; Mrs Hudson keeps taking me aside and telling me not to forget Sherlock after I'm married. As if I could! It's not as if _anyone_ could ignore Sherlock. He's pretty good at demanding attention."

"It was easier to keep an eye on him when you were living in the same flat. He was better for having you around."

John takes a swallow of beer and then shakes his head. "He doesn't need a babysitter, Greg. He doesn't need me; two years of working on his own to take Moriarty's network apart proves that."

Greg puts his glass down and stares at John. "You really are still angry."

John sighs. "No, not really. More a question of being disappointed. I thought…" He trails out and sighs again.

The silence between them grows, filled by the background sound of the other conversations in the pub and the clatter of glasses being picked up by the waitress.

Finally, Greg's patience snaps, "Spit it out. I promise I won't tell a soul, if that is what is keeping you from speaking the truth."

John stops fiddling with the beer mat, putting two hands around the bottom of his glass, as if the gesture would ground him. "Back then, I thought I meant more to him than that. He _lied_ to me for months while he was planning the whole charade. The worst thing is that he clearly thought I wouldn't care when he killed himself. I'm angry—not only with him for making that mistake; I'm also pissed off with myself for not being clearer. Maybe if I had been… I don't know… more _obvious_ about how important he was to me, about what I felt about our friendship, then maybe he would have trusted me enough to tell me what the hell he was planning to do."

"He couldn't risk it. You know that now, especially after Hartswood*. Get real, John. You're a terrible liar. If you had known, you would have either tried to go with him or tried to stop him."

"Yeah, I guess so." He goes back to fidgeting with the beer mat.

Greg decides enough is enough; he needs to read the riot act. "Get it through that thick head of yours that it is precisely _because_ he cares so much about you that he kept you in the dark. And that's why I hope to God you won't drift off into a happy-ever-after life in the suburbs; the wife, semi-detached house, kids and a dog, forgetting about him on the way."

John laughs. "Me? I'm the adrenaline junkie, remember? No chance."

Greg nods. "Good. Make sure he knows that. We all need to be keeping an eye on him right now."

"Want another? It's my round."

"Make it a half pint for me. When you get back, you're going to tell me all about your honeymoon plans and how you're going to keep them secret from Sherlock."

John is still chuckling when he returns from the bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The Elephant in the Room is covered in my story Magpie: Two for Joy, chapter 9.  
**What happened at Hartswood Manor is covered in Magpie: One for Sorrow. It explains how John came to understand the cost to Sherlock of his hiatus finally.


	2. Unavailable

** _—Ten Days Later—_ **

Hatfield Police station, where Jonathan Small has been taken to be arrested for the attempted murder, sits twenty-three miles to the south-east from the Arnsworth Castle Hotel. Instead of dancing the night away there, Greg is explaining the details of the arrest he's made to the Essex police sergeant on duty.

"He's also wanted for attempted murder in London. The Met case will take priority because it happened first, but tuck him up for the night here. I'll do the liaison with the Essex Constabulary tomorrow morning when the evidence for both cases can be presented. His intended victim is Major James Sholto who has been taken to Princess Alexandra Hospital in Harlow with a stab wound. You'll want to go around tomorrow and get a statement."

Is it Greg's imagination, or are policemen these days getting younger? The poor guy looks startled; probably the most exciting case he's seen for weeks has been a drunk run on the high street after pub closing time. Murder isn't something that tends to happen in this sleepy market town.

Determined to do things right in what has to be his first ever attempted murder case, the Sergeant ensures that the paperwork takes ages.

When he is finally done dotting the i's and crossing the t's, Greg goes outside to where he'd parked his motorbike. He'd insisted on following the squad car that had picked up Small, thinking that he'd be able to go straight home from there. Due south on the M11, it would take him only a half hour.

He is tired. _Trust Sherlock to turn a wedding into a crime scene._

The thought makes him stop and look northward. The dancing is bound to be in full swing by now. There isn't much point in returning to the hotel; he had not come with a plus one, nor is he much of a dancer. Neither is Sherlock—at least not to the sort of music that Mary and John are likely to have chosen with the DJ.

Greg slips his helmet on and starts the motor. Sherlock is surrounded by his friends, who will keep an eye on him tonight.*

oOoOoOoOo

At ten forty-five in the morning of the next day, Greg sneaks another look at his mobile on his office desk and sighs. No reply yet to his three text messages and two voice mails. Sherlock is playing hard to get, which is complicating Greg's efforts to get the paperwork sorted on Jonathan Small. The Essex Constabulary are happy to transfer the prisoner to the Met's jurisdiction, but Lestrade needs an official statement from Sherlock to make that happen. Somehow, he doesn't think that "_I heard him explain the case in his wedding speech_" will hold water in front of a judge when he tries to get the arrest warrant. He uses the desktop PC to find a phone number.

"Arnsworth Castle Hotel, Lisa Anne speaking. How may I help you?"

Greg gives his credentials. "Can you tell me if Mister Sherlock Holmes has checked out? If he's still there, can you put me through to his room, please?"

"Mister Holmes is not here. He checked out late last night."

_Last night?!_ What had led Sherlock to alter his plans? According to John, he was supposed to have stayed to see the couple off to bed, and then in the morning get them into their car to Stansted airport before settling the final account with the hotel and returning by car with Mrs Hudson to Baker Street. John had complained that the level of micro-managing was getting more than a bit weird by the end.

Greg knows he can't call John who is, by now, off on his honeymoon. The memory of their conversation at the pub regarding the planning of said trip still brings a smile. John had explained how, using his phone and laptop, he had laid a bogus trail to throw Sherlock off the scent. The Booking.com site links showing in his browser history would point the nosy git in the direction of Paris and a romantic hotel on the Left Bank. In fact, all the real arrangements had been made by John weeks ago, using the practice manager's desktop computer at the surgery. John had even found a way to keep the cost out of his bank account, should Sherlock go prying there. Sheila had been more than happy to be reimbursed by a post-dated cheque for her paying by her credit card the air tickets and hotel arrangements to Agadir on the Moroccan coast, especially when she got in return a free weekend in Paris, under the name of Mr and Mrs Watson.

Mary had wanted to relax on a beach in a warm country, and John was determined that she was going to get it without Sherlock knowing about it. Mary would be leaving her phone behind at their flat; John had planned to give his phone to Sheila, with instructions to take it to Paris but to ignore all the texts that were likely to come from Sherlock.

The idea of Sherlock attempting to micro-manage the honeymoon was just a step too far. John had shaken his head at the pub when describing to Greg the lengths to which he'd felt he'd had to go to keep their privacy. "It's like I'm plotting a crime, and he's the Consulting Detective who's going to fail to solve it." They'd both laughed at that.

Greg really doesn’t like the idea that Sherlock changed his overnight plans at the last minute. What could have happened after he'd left for Hatfield with Jonathan Small in handcuffs? What could have gone wrong?

Without his usual Sherlock-location device in the shape of John, Greg decides to call Mrs Hudson. It takes quite some time before there's an answer by her familiar voice.

"Hello?"

"Hello Mrs Hudson; it's Greg Lestrade here. I've been trying to ring Sherlock all morning, and he isn't answering his phone. I called the hotel, and they said he left before midnight last night. Is he back at Baker Street now?"

"Oh, Detective Inspector! Sorry for taking so long; I was upstairs. No, he's not there; I haven't seen him since last night when he played for their first dance. I couldn't say when he left the disco. No one seems to remember seeing him go because we were all dancing, and I only noticed his absence when we were watching the fireworks. He was supposed to come with me in a car back here this morning."

"Did John and Mary say anything this morning?"

"Oh, I don't know, my dear. I didn't see them off. To be honest, I have a bit of headache this morning, and I wasn't up early enough. I found a note from Sherlock in my room when I woke up—on his violin, which he asked me to bring back. It said he had other plans and I was to go on without him. You say he left the hotel last night? Oh, that's sad. I thought he'd be happy with that murder to solve and all—just his sort of thing, really."

"Yeah, well that's what kept me away for the rest of the evening, seeing to the suspect. He didn't say what those plans were? Any ideas where he might be?"

"Sorry, not a clue. I really thought he'd be upstairs sulking today, now that all his planning is over. When you do find Sherlock, could you tell him that the hotel manager wants to talk to him? Apparently, there are some loose ends he has to resolve before the final account can be settled. He was most insistent that I should tell Sherlock this, but he's not here now." Her tone of voice indicates that she is as worried, too.

"I'll keep looking. Do call me if he shows up."

oOoOoOoOo

"Is he there? I need to speak to him."

The familiar tones of Mycroft Holmes' PA are as cool and professional as always, even when apologising: "I'm sorry, Detective Inspector, but he isn't available at the moment."

"Do you know when he will be available?"

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"Great." He loads it with as much sarcasm as he can muster.

"Is there a problem?" Her received pronunciation is impeccable—almost too perfect—which makes him wonder if she is actually English. Do foreign students still learn a cut-glass accent at an English posh girl's school? It would not surprise Greg if Mycroft had put it in the job description.

He musters a weary sigh and then replies, "Good question; wish I knew the answer."

"If you could be more specific, then, perhaps, I could be of some assistance." This is said with some degree of vexation.

"You know that yesterday was John Watson's wedding."

"I am aware of that fact, yes. Mister Holmes was invited to the evening function but had declined to attend. Need I remind you that he is a busy man? In fact, now it's even worse because he has had to leave the country, due to something that happened last night. So, unless you can be specific about your concerns, I am not sure how I can help you."

Greg sighs. "Do you have eyes on Sherlock? I need to know where he is and that he is alright. He left the wedding early last night, without telling anyone where he was going. I also need him to give a formal witness statement for two attempted murder cases, one of which happened last night at the wedding reception."

"Oh!" This time, the professional patina of her speech is tarnished a bit by surprise. " That is… rather unexpected. I will see if there is any information about his whereabouts and get back to you in a moment." 

He tosses the phone back on his desk and picks up where he left off, typing in the details of what he can remember of Sherlock's description of the Mayfly Man case.

Ten minutes later, his phone rings and he spots on the screen Mycroft's number. "Hello?"

"Me again, Detective Inspector," the PA says. "I am afraid we have no sightings since he was last traced to the hotel. If he left, we can only assume that he disabled his phone before going, so you have your reason for him not returning your calls. It has a tracker on it that should function even if it isn't on, but we are receiving no signal, and the cameras we've checked between Stansted and London show no sign of him."

Is it Greg's imagination, or does her voice now sound a bit more concerned? His backstop with Sherlock has always been Mycroft's surveillance team. Big brother might be intrusive as hell, but at least he could usually be relied upon.

She continues, "Detective Inspector, what happened at the wedding? Did something occur that might trigger… such unhelpful behaviour?"

Her unwillingness to be blunt about Sherlock's drug abuse annoys Greg. "Yeah, well, if he's holed up somewhere taking his brain offline, then I expect we all need to recognise that John's marriage isn't going to be easy for him to deal with. Maybe Mycroft should have been there."

"Where were _you_, Detective Inspector? Weren't you the one who promised to keep an eye on him?"

_Ouch._ "I was taking an attempted murder suspect into the Essex police; can't help it when duty calls."

"Indeed." The tone is now decidedly frosty. "My employer is in the same position, only in his case, the security of the country hangs in the balance. I will endeavour to inform him of the situation, but I know that he will be unable to do anything personally for some time. Of course, I will inform our people and SO6, but given Sherlock's capacity to remain off the radar for extended periods of time, I suggest that for now, you deploy whatever personal knowledge you have. Keep me informed."

The line goes dead, leaving Greg glaring at his phone in utter frustration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> : *What Sherlock did after he left the Arnsworth Hotel is covered in the last chapter of Magpie: Two for Joy; Greg has every reason to be worried. That chapter will also satisfy your curiosity about what it is that Sherlock was up to at that time. SO6 is that branch of the Metropolitan Police responsible for personal protection of family members of important government officials, foreign diplomats and the Royal protection officers. In my stories, Mycroft's position warrants such protection being extended to Sherlock.


	3. Deduction

** _—Three Days Later—_ **

The rain-slick streets of London are never really dark. Once the sun sets, pools of light from street lamps help him see what he's been hunting for on the wet pavements. Not that he'd been really expecting to find anything in daylight. Still, it's been a while, and he needs to re-orient himself in the ways of those who don't want to be found—the homeless, the vagrants, the drug dealers and users, the criminal low-life—all of whom tend to be nocturnal.

It's been three days since the wedding, and there's still no sign of Sherlock. Mrs Hudson had phoned him in the morning and before she'd gone to bed, confirming that he'd not returned to Baker Street. To make matters worse, the weather has turned miserable again. John and Mary might be off on honeymoon enjoying some sun, sand and sex but, back in London, the temperatures are plummeting at night.

Lestrade turns up the collar on his biker jacket; the gap between his helmet and his jacket means his neck is getting uncomfortably damp. He's checked out the obvious places but had no luck so far. The known bolt holes are empty, the usual territory vacant. Maybe the foul weather has driven his quarry off the streets into some doss house? He hopes not. The dealer Greg had spoken to an hour ago swore that he hadn't seen him tonight, so it's more likely that he's still chasing a hit somewhere.

When Lestrade eventually spots him just off the Kilburn High Street part of Edgeware Road, it's amongst a group of young men taking shelter under the awning of a hot chicken wing takeaway joint. Standing out of the rain, shovelling the food from a box meal into his mouth and munching away, what's one more scruffy, lanky man in a well-worn hoodie and trainers?

_Hiding in plain sight_. Greg parks the bike and saunters over to the group, hoping his disguise will hold long enough.

"You know this place got shut down last week by the health inspectors." 

It's enough to make his quarry pull a half-gnawed chicken wing out of his mouth, dropping it and the box onto a pavement already carpeted with the debris of late-night customers.

"I could have you for littering…" Greg adds.

"Whadda you want?" It's asked in the distinctive accent of a north Londoner, followed by a sniff.

"Just to talk, Billy."

Another sniff. "Talking to you comes at a price, man." 

"One I'm willing to pay. Let me take you somewhere where the food won't land you in hospital."

Wiggins shrugs his bony shoulders. "All I can afford these days."

"My treat."

That makes the young man's eyes narrow. "I ain't for sale."

Greg knows that this is being said for the benefit of any of the other three men under the awning, who might wonder why a middle-aged bloke was talking to him. He also knows that the crisp twenty-pound notes that he'd pulled from a cash machine only an hour ago won't be staying in his wallet for long. But appearances must be maintained, so he goes along with the charade.

"I know that. Come on." Greg turns back towards the bike, knowing that he will be followed.

0oOoOoOoOo

Seven minutes and a mile and a half northward on the A5 later, they are cocooned in the steamy confines of the all-night diner. If anything, the neighbourhood has deteriorated even further, because they are on that bit of the Edgware Road that is locally named _Shoot-Up Hill _on the way to Cricklewood.

The irony of where Lestrade has taken him is not lost on Wiggins, who swears he is clean.

If he is, it is probably only due to a shortage of funds. Billy wears the marks of a habitual user—pasty grey skin, bloodshot eyes, hair awry, several days' worth of stubble. That he is in need is being telegraphed by a constantly jiggling leg under the table. He's having trouble managing his body temperature, shedding a grubby anorak, a denim jacket and then a hoodie, leaving him in a short-sleeved striped polo shirt that exposes recent, puckered and irritated puncture marks dotting his forearm from his elbow to the inside of his wrist.

Greg grimaces at the poor excuse for coffee being served; it tastes like it has been brewing for hours. He doesn't complain because he knows the bitterness will help wash down the greasy hamburger that the young man sitting across the table from him is devouring.

Between bites and with his mouth full, Wiggins comments, "Thought you'd gone upmarket. Won't deal with no low-life like me anymore. How long's it been?"

"Not quite a year."

"You got that posh guy, the private detective bloke. Back from the dead, 'elping you now."

Greg smiles. "Not on the sort of things you do."

He'd first come across Billy when he'd been staking out a drug-dealing operation, years ago. Sleeping rough to avoid an abusive step-father, the young man had been nothing but skin and bones and two eyes that rarely missed a thing. In exchange for money from Greg, Billy had taken up residence as a homeless person camped across the street from the target house and passed on vital information. He'd said he didn't mind; the dealers were _'scumbags who routinely passed on bad dope that had a habit of killing people_'.

The number of little jobs he'd asked Billy to do for him over the years of Sherlock's absence kept him in touch occasionally, just enough to get to know a little more about him. Wiggins was a trained chemist who had been studying for a pharmacy qualification when the stepfather moved in, and he'd been forced out. Turned his hand to several of the illegal chem labs, working in the shadows of the drug trade before he acquired a taste for his own product. Things had gone downhill from there.

Greg found him more useful on stake-outs than the efforts of most police officers. Wiggins shrugged off any compliment by saying "Homeless are invisible. No one wants to look at us; makes 'em feel uncomfortable."

It is precisely that invisibility that Greg needs now. When the last mouthful has gone down, and Billy has licked his fingers clean, the DI leans forward. I need you to look out for someone. Find him and then keep an eye on him for me."

"What's he done?"

Greg smiles. "Maybe nothing, yet."

"Then what is he going to do?"

"Relapse."

Wiggins laughs. "Don't we all. Not a crime… Well, not enough of one to get the likes of you looking into it."

"I've been keeping my eye on him for years. Not for police business."

Wary, Wiggins asks, "Then why do you care if he goes back on the dope?"

"Look, this matters to me on a personal level. Let's just say he's a friend of mine and I don’t want to see him lose what he's got. I think he may be about to go on a bender."

"If I find him, what's in it for me?"

"It's not just locating him; I want you to shadow him. If he is using, then I want you to be there in the neighbourhood, making sure he's safe. Any sign of a bad reaction or he gets into trouble, you call me and an ambulance if he needs it. I can get you some naloxone to carry; use it if you think he's OD'd."

"Most users I know gonna object to being baby-sat."

"He might, too. That's where your being invisible is going to be useful. But you don't have to worry; he's not violent and even if he spots you—which he probably will—he won't take it out on you."

Wiggins looks up at him, scrutinising carefully. "Who is he?"

"You'll find him by his street name: Shezza. He's well-known in the homeless community."

Billy takes a moment, drinking the last of his coffee. "Not 'eard of 'im. Where's his manor?"

"If I knew that, would I need you? He knows the whole of London better than you ever will, both north and south of the river."

"What's his drug of choice?"

"Cocaine. With a heroin or morphine chaser to ease the come-down."

"Do you know his regular dealer?"

"He's picky, like you. A chemist, too; wants to know the quality and what it's cut with, at least when he's still sober enough to care. When he's on full throttle, he'll also be using any and every damned benzo he can get his hands on to stop thinking about whatever it is that drove him to use again." Greg wishes he didn't know this about Sherlock, but he does, and if it helps Billy find him before this post-wedding bender gets out of hand, then it's worth passing it on.

Wiggins gets up and stretches, then saunters over to the counter where he orders another plate of chips and a re-fill of coffee. When he comes back and sinks back into his chair, he leans back with a smile on his face.

"It's your posh detective bloke, ain't it? I'm not stupid. I remember the papers, you know, when he did that fake suicide thing. The Sun said he was a user."

"Don't believe everything you read in the newspapers..."

"…Just some of it," Billy says with a snort. "When he came back, he cleared his name, and all's forgiven. So, why's he in trouble now?"

"Doesn't matter why; he just is. So, will you do it?"

"How long's this gonna take?"

"Don't know for sure, and I won't know until you find him. Maybe a couple of weeks. I can pay you fifty quid a day, although I expect most of the work will be needed at night."

"…Plus expenses."

Greg laughs. "Expenses? What expenses? I don't want this to disappear up your arm; you need to stay sober enough to keep him safe."

"You want me to find this guy who could be anywhere in London and follow him anywhere in London. He's got dosh, so won't be using a bleedin' Oyster card, will he? Black cabs cost, mate."

"Keep receipts. I'll cover food and transport, but only if you show me a receipt."

The plate of chips and a second cup of coffee arrive.

Before he tucks in, Wiggins adds, "And phone. You want me to keep you informed, then I need a top-up."

Greg laughs. "You drive a hard bargain, Bill Wiggins."

"He's worth it, your guy, ain't he? Saved London an' all? I was sleeping rough on a grate on Parliament Square the night it was going to be bombed. So, yeah, I'll do it."

"Good. Thanks. Good to know that you appreciate why it's important to keep an eye on him."

Greg snags a chip off the plate. "I'll cover this bill. Last I heard, he's still at home. Do you want a lift?"

"Nah, I can make me own way there. Don't want to damage my reputation by being seen in your company for any longer than I need to."

Greg smirks. "Yeah. Well, his address is…"

"…221b Baker Street. Everybody knows that." 

Wiggins slurps from the coffee mug and waves his hand in a shooing motion. "Now, get lost."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's notes:
> 
> Ever wondered what Billy Wiggins was doing, loitering with intent downstairs in the drug den when John Watson showed up looking for Isaac? I never bought the idea that he was just a casual look-out for that place. He seemed to know about Sherlock's "Shezza" identity in the car when Sherlock obviously didn't know him by name until he asked in the Barts lab. Why would he show up at the car wanting a ride with the person who had actually twisted his arm and taken him down? At the lab, Wiggins knew enough to throw in "I further deduce…." So, this is my answer to that particular plot hole left by Mofftiss.


	4. Anyone?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are encouraged to read the last chapter of Magpie: Two for Joy to refresh your memories about what Sherlock was planning to do when he left the wedding. A brief summary here (God, I sound like American television series with the "Previously on …." before each show):
> 
> While planning the Watson–Morstan wedding, Sherlock became increasingly obsessed with what Mycroft was refusing to tell him about "the Georgian connection". A series of cases covered in that story—including the Elephant in the Room—brought Sherlock closer to the truth. What Sherlock doesn't know (and Mycroft is determined to keep from him) is that he has an elder half-brother, Fitzroy S. Ford, who was once Mycroft's boss in the Security & Intelligence Liaison Service, and who committed treason in 2001. Mycroft eventually brought him to justice, and he was extradited to be incarcerated in Tbilisi, Georgia. The arrangement of his solitary confinement there is confirmed every month by a blood sample being sent for testing back in London to confirm his identity. During the course of "Magpie: Two for Joy" it becomes apparent that Ford has escaped—and did so quite some time ago—and is now intent on wreaking havoc and revenge. Mycroft hides this from Sherlock, who is increasingly suspicious and beginning to put the pieces together. This third sibling—an evil one to boot—was part of my writing a full three years before Series Four was broadcast (You can imagine my shrieks when I watched the episodes). At the end of Magpie Two, Sherlock disappears after the wedding; he goes to a new bolt hole, determined to concentrate on solving this Georgian mystery. He uses cocaine to speed his thought processes with a heroin chaser to come down slowly enough to sleep. After a week of such a roller coaster binge, things start to fall apart.

Greg is on his fourth cup of coffee, even though it's only eleven o'clock in the morning. Spending the last seven nights looking for Sherlock, trying to gee up Billy, and generally worrying about the missing Consulting Detective, he is running on nerves and caffeine. Their effects are slowly proving lacklustre, so now, standing outside in the area behind the New Scotland Yard building, he's succumbing to another stimulant. Content that he should be protected from any public scrutiny in his current spot, he takes a deep inhalation of his second cigarette in five minutes. Ever since the Chief Superintendent had insisted that all officers stay on premises rather than go to the Embankment for their nicotine fixes, Greg has used the occasion to keep up with the gossip amongst other officers.

_Better than a watercooler any day._

Except not today, as DI Sobie is regaling the smokers with the story of how the Waters Gang had finally ended up in custody, despite the abrupt departure of the officer in charge. Lestrade knows he is about to be ribbed for his impromptu detour to Baker Street. There are more than a few sniggers of laughter, and Greg knows she is not the sort to spare his blushes.

Sandra Sobie is a big Yorkshire woman who's been working on the county lines up from London into the northern market towns. As soon as she finishes the story, she calls out to him, "Hey, Greg, 'ave you seen the latest post on the Watson blog? Na' then—looks like your daft bugger Holmes has hacked it and left a little love letter. It's a hoot!"

As soon as he stubs out his cigarette, Greg bolts upstairs and opens his laptop. He scans the latest entry, entitled "_The Sign of Three_":

_Wow!!!!!!!!! What a day!!!!!! That was the best wedding ever!!!!!! Sherlock was amazing! Love is amazing! Fluffy clouds and little birds are amazing!!! It was all just like so amazing! I'm going to write up all about it here! Because you all love reading my blog because I'm such a good writer!!! _

In the post, Sherlock then admits that he's writing it and mentions the "_sex holiday_". Greg has to start laughing when he realises that Sherlock has deduced their destination is not Paris but "_somewhere hot and sunny with beaches and cocktails or something_".

His smile fades as the tone of the text further down the page becomes even odder; references are made to "_phasing_" John out, criticising both John and Mary as "_both perfectly acceptable friends in their own way but then they start talking, and I wish I really had died_." He then makes the point that it is "_very nice to have the place to myself without their meaningless chatter distracting me from more important things_". What could those be, since he's not on a case right now—at least not one supplied by the Met? Ever since Mycroft had closed off that avenue of work, Sherlock has been dependent on the blog, which for obvious reasons is a bit silent at the moment.

The exchange of comments below the post includes ones from John and Mary, as well as Sherlock himself. On the surface, it all seems perfectly innocent: teasing, light-hearted banter. But, given that Greg knows a) Sherlock does not really understand teasing, b) he has been nowhere near Baker Street since the wedding, and c) that he had probably been high as a kite when he'd hacked into the site, puts a whole different meaning on the text. The only comfort he can take is that it is proof of life; Sherlock is not dead somewhere from an overdose.

He grabs his phone and makes a call.

oOoOoOoOo

An hour later, Greg is sitting at a table in the Marquis of Granby on Romney Street. It's halfway between the Yard and the National Crime Agency at Citadel Place, south of the river, so a convenient pub to meet someone he knows from the Cybercrime team who may be able to help him find Sherlock.

"So, what's the favour?" Jeremy Coates is an IT specialist Greg had run across three years earlier. His speciality is tracking internet hackers. Bespectacled and looking far removed from the usual police officer, the young man is currently munching on a piece of battered cod.

"I need you to find out where a hacker was located when he broke into a site and posted something."

"What's the crime?"

Greg winces a bit. "That's the favour. It's not really a criminal activity. The guy who did it is a friend of mine, a friend of the person who owns the site, and he even told him who he was. It was seen as a bit of a joke."

Jeremy picks up a chip and dabs it into the ketchup. "So, if you know who he is and his prank is all out there in the public domain, then why do you need to know where he did the deed?"

"Because he's gone AWOL, and I think he's holed up somewhere drowning his sorrows in illegal substances. I'm reading between the lines here, and I want to find him before it gets too serious Because he's a mate, I need you to keep quiet about who's involved, what state he is in and where he is."

"Ah, I get it. This has to be off the books, then."

Greg shows him the site, and Jeremy laughs at first. "Holmes? Wow—didn't realise that the stuff in the Sun about drugs was true." He writes down the URL. "I'll get back to you this afternoon. Shouldn't take me long. What's your mobile number?"

oOoOoOoOo

It's almost midnight, but Jeremy hasn't called back yet. Greg has just finished a face-to-face with Billy, who says that Shezza hasn't been seen anywhere north of the river. They'd met up near Waterloo station, where Billy has been working the dealers to see if anyone fitting the description has been buying recently. Greg had been disappointed to learn that there was no sign of Sherlock in the neighbourhood. After pocketing his day rate, Billy said he was off to investigate around Elephant and Castle. Perronet House had garages where people were known to be doing hard drugs.

Greg is about to call it a night and head for home when his phone rings.

"Hi. Jeremy here… At last. Your man may be sozzled, but wow, he sure knows how to hide a hack."

"Have you found him?" Greg stops on the stairs leading out of the station to where he's parked.

"Yeah, 'course I did. Just took me a lot longer because he routes through so many damned IPs that it took me a while to unravel. He can work the Russian and Chinese dark web servers in ways that I barely know. But yeah, got him in the end; he's using the King's College academic portal. That added on an extra couple of hours since Kings has got five different campuses scattered all over London. It took me a while to pin down the exact location, but I'd narrowed it down to somewhere in Guy's Campus when I got a lucky break. Holmes posted a comment on the blog while I was actually online, which made narrowing it down easier."

"Where is he?"

"The library at New Hunt's House. It's open twenty-four hours, so an ideal place to access any time he needs without arousing suspicion."

"You're a star, Jeremy. Thanks so much for this."

"I'm beat and heading for bed. I hope you find him; he sounds kind of lonely."

"What? What did he say?"

"Take a look yourself." 

"Ta, thanks…." He hangs up and swipes open the internet.

[**Sherlock Holmes **](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/comments/sherlockholmes)13 August

Did nobody notice the attempted murder I mentioned? What's wrong with you all?

[**Sherlock Holmes **](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/comments/sherlockholmes)13 August

Does anyone want to ask me how I worked it all out? And who the potential victim was?

[**Sherlock Holmes **](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/comments/sherlockholmes)13 August

Anyone?

[**Sherlock Holmes **](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/comments/sherlockholmes)13 August

John would ask me if he was here. He always asks me what's going on and how i worked it out.

[**Sherlock Holmes **](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/comments/sherlockholmes)13 August

ANYONE?

Greg slips into his car, grabs the Police notice off the dashboard and shoves it back into the glove compartment. Putting his car into gear, he accelerates away from Waterloo Station.

"_Anyone? _" He knows Sherlock well enough to tell that it's a call for help.

oOoOoOoOo

"I'm sorry, sir, but that area is not open yet."

Greg had tried to open the door, but entry is swipe card activated, which must be the key. He's searched high and low, but there have been no sightings of a slightly scruffy post-graduate chemist seeking to hide in plain sight. In theory, Sherlock is a bit too old to sustain that disguise, but Greg knows he's capable of looking ten years younger at a moment's notice. Slap on a hoodie, change his posture, carry a backpack full of textbooks and he'd look just the part.

The DI had not realised just how big a university library could be. New Hunt's House is all glass and chrome, soaring atrium, two-storey windows and open spaces. It is about as far removed from the dusty book-shelved image that Greg has always imagined a university library to be. Not that he'd ever known one personally; direct entry into Hendon College as a police cadet had been the height of his ambitions back when he left school.

"Sir? Can I help you?" The security guard is being polite, probably in deference to Lestrade's grey hair. Maybe the guard thinks he's some absent-minded professor.

Greg flashes his warrant card and points through the window into the stairwell. "Tell me, what's down there?"

The security guard follows Greg's finger to see the stairs heading down into what is presumably a basement. It had not been shown on the floor-plan at the entrance, nor was it possible to gain access through the lift. Pressing the button marked B1, B2 or B3 had not moved the lift an inch.

The guard looks startled. "Um… The basements are off limits to most everyone except librarians. Those stacks up the stairs are open to academic staff but not students, but you can only get in if your card is authorised. Downstairs, there's B1 which is restricted stacks, B2 is workrooms, and B3 is mostly storage—for materials moved from the St Bartholomew's Hospital collection."

Until he had mentioned Bart's, Greg had begun to think that Sherlock must be a casual visitor, perhaps dropping into the study areas simply to use the Wi-fi and hide behind the university's academic portal. "What's the connection to Bart's?"

"King's bought the collection when they agreed to demolish the old pathology department block. It's down there on B3 waiting for re-cataloguing."

"So, do people go down there much?"

"No. It's pretty much off limits. Just occasionally, the chief librarian who wants to check something. There's a guard who goes down there once a day to check that no one's been mucking about. All the doors are locked and can't be opened without the right swipe card. We'll have a record of the guard's last trip; sensors record his passage. Do you want me to download the data for you?"

Greg smiles. "Nope; not needed, you can just let me in."

"Um…" the guard looks uncomfortable, "I'd have to get my supervisor to okay that."

Greg decides to pull rank. "I'm a Detective Inspector on the Metropolitan Police's Major Investigation Team. I am looking for a suspect who has been traced to this building. Are you really going to waste police time and obstruct me from doing my duty?" He puts into his tone of voice all the incredulity he could muster at this hour.

It works. Without further protest, the guard swipes his card and opens the door. When Lestrade goes through, the man starts to follow, but Greg raises a hand. "No, I need you to stay here and guard the door. If the lifts don't work down there, this may be his only way out."

He reaches over and grabs the swipe card out of the guard's hand. "I'll give this back when I return."

As he descends the flights of stairs, automatic lights come on, turning off once he has passed. He starts at B3, working on the premise that Sherlock would want his bolt-hole to be as deep in the bowels of the building, away from prying eyes as possible. The connection to Barts might also be a personal draw.

The contents of the storage rooms turn out to inconsequential. The first one Lestrade lets himself into is full of floor-to-ceiling shelves, filled with cardboard boxes. He wanders down one row, then the other and then the last one without being able to decipher what the labels on the boxes actually mean. The next four rooms are exactly the same. He swipes to gain entry, crosses the threshold, and some sensor or another picks up his presence and turns the overhead fluorescent lights on. When he leaves, the lights go out.

Down the corridor, there are eight more doors, making him wonder if there is any way to speed things up. Walking down to the end without seeing anything that would mark any one door more likely than another to be hiding a consulting detective, Greg sighs. When he inhales again, his nose picks up the faintest scent of coffee. It triggers both a caffeine craving and a realisation; he's not the only one who is keeping unsocial hours.

He tracks the scent down to the second door from the end, on the left. Swiping the entry card, he walks in, and the lights flicker into life with the usual buzz and metallic pings, revealing yet another wall of shelves with boxes.

Undeterred, he goes to the end and turns the corner, only to realise that this room has only a single row of shelves. He stops in his tracks, startled by what else is in the room. Shielded from anyone who just casually looked in to see the usual row of shelves, the wide space behind opens out to a long wall, with a single metal desk and chair in front of it, currently occupied by Sherlock. His head is cradled in his arms, down on the desk and he appears to be sound asleep.

"Sherlock…" He calls out, careful not to use such a loud voice that he'd startle the man.

There is no reply, no indication that he has been heard. That worries Greg; he knows what a light sleeper Sherlock is. Just the sound of the lights going on should have woken him up if he hadn't been roused by Greg opening and closing the doors to the other storage rooms. There is a vending-machine coffee cup on the desk next to Sherlock's head, and there is still a trace of steam rising from it.

Greg goes over to the desk and squats down to see if he can get a look at Sherlock's face, but all he can see are the dark curls in dire need of a wash. Getting close also makes him aware that the rest of the man needs a shower, too. The clothes would help him blend in with the student population—dark trousers, a crumpled navy dress shirt, King's hoodie in navy and a pair of scuffed trainers. The lack of personal hygiene wouldn't have raised many eyebrows either. Greg then spots the slim box that Sherlock has cradled in his arms, serving as a sort of pillow. As reluctant as he is to touch someone with the sensory issues that Sherlock has, Greg decides he has to see if a nudge will wake up this particular sleeping beauty. When there is no reaction to the gentle push, he lifts an arm and wiggles the box free. Worry turns to outright alarm when Sherlock does not wake up.

Flipping open the lid of the box, Greg discovers the hardly surprising reason: several used syringes and a small bottle of morphine sit beside a plastic bag of white powder and another of slightly creamier coloured crystals, plus a third bag of different shaped tablets in a rather lurid range of candy colours. He drops the box onto the metal desk with a crash and is relieved to see a slow twitch of shoulders in response.

Leaning over, Greg puts his mouth closer to Sherlock's ear and shouts, "You are _so_ busted."

Startle reflexes kick in, and Sherlock sits up, confused and bleary-eyed. "What?!"

"I said, you're busted, Sherlock. What the fuck do you think you are doing? John Watson getting married is no reason to fall off the wagon." He points to the open box.

Awareness begins creeping back into those startling eyes which look blue in the yellow light. Greg is not surprised to find Sherlock's pupils constricted to pinpricks.

After Hartswood, Greg had believed he could hope that Sherlock would stay on the right path. His bad feeling about John not realising what level of danger Sherlock was in because of the wedding and doing nothing about it has just been proven a solid hunch.

"Lestrade…"

Greg hears the slight lisp on the S of his name and registers it as yet another symptom of drug use. "Yeah, it's me, Sunshine. Care to explain yourself?"

"It's for a case…" Sherlock flaps his hand rather disjointedly at the wall.

Greg turns to look, for the first time taking in something other than Sherlock. The entire length of the wall is strewn with a dense carpet of blue-tacked odds and sods. Greg struggles to make out specific items because of how many photos, maps, pieces of paper with Sherlock's characteristic scrawl and newspaper cuttings are plastered on it. Festooning the lot are coloured strings connecting disparate parts to a silhouette image of a man's head and shoulders with a big question mark in the middle.

It is without a doubt the largest and most complicated evidence board that Greg has ever seen, and he works for a Major Investigation team. "What the hell is this?"

"That is the question…" This is said with a little more clarity and focus in tone; the morphine-induced fog in Sherlock's head must be clearing. "Not one crime, more like a _lot_ of crimes, all linked together."

After days of worrying and looking for him, fearing the worst, Greg's patience with Sherlock comes to an end. "Solving things never required morphine before. Explain."

"Morphine is to help me sleep. Solving this takes the others in that box." Sherlock gets to his feet, a tad unsteady, but shuffles over to the left side of the wall. He points at a photo. "Don't blame me; it's _his _fault."

Greg follows the finger and recognises an image of Mycroft. Peering more closely, he realises this is a much younger version. Mycroft's chestnut hair is only starting to recede, and the image makes Greg recall the first time he'd seen Mycroft: at a police station when he turned up to reclaim an eighteen-year-old Sherlock. Glancing up, Greg sees a black marker pen has been used to write a timeline on the white plaster.

The date over the photo is 1997. To the left at the end, he can see 1989 scrawled at the top. "Something happened back then? You were just a kid."

There is a hum of agreement. "I am pretty sure that whatever is going on now, started all those years ago. Maybe after my mother died, but more likely when my father died. I was still at school. I've had my suspicions for a long time."

Greg makes a gesture of confusion, "But why look into this now?" _Except in a desperate bid to distract yourself?_

"My brother is being blackmailed. I am almost certain of it. I don't know what it is about or who the blackmailer is, but deduction has led to that conclusion with ninety percent validation." Sherlock points to a load of mathematical symbols drawn on the bare wall below the area where the materials are pasted up. "This is a flow proof; these are the definitions, theorems, postulates and properties used. I concluded that it's blackmail using an indirect proof; the statement is true because the assumption that its negation is true leads to a contradiction."

As much as Greg squints at the mathematics, their meaning eludes him, and he can't help wondering if they're just the product of what Sherlock has been shooting up. "If you say so…" He tries to keep the incredulity from his tone of voice. Sometimes Sherlock spouts such utter nonsense that if he didn't have the irrefutable proof of how often he turns out to be right, Greg would be sorely tempted to call him crazy.

Greg's still trying to make sense of what he is seeing as he walks further along to the right and then stops in his tracks, at the sight of a photo of a very familiar Irishman. "You think _Moriarty_ is somehow involved in this?"

"It took me most of the day after the wedding to work that out, but yes; I am convinced that he was set upon us—Mycroft and me—by the blackmailer. It's the only thing that makes sense."

"Explain it to me."

Sherlock gives an exaggerated roll of his eyes. "Think it through. Moriarty wanted to recruit Mycroft as one of his Fallen Angels. _Why him? _What did all of them have in common? As I discovered over the next two years' worth of winkling them out of their various holes, each Fallen Angel had a secret that Moriarty used against them. Moriarty wasn't told what Mycroft's secret was; if he had known, then it would have been more than my reputation he'd have decided to trash. But somehow, he _knew_ that Mycroft was vulnerable. Which is also why my brother was so determined to keep me out of it."

"Well, you showed him."

"Yes… Well, to a point. That still leaves whoever was his handler with something over Mycroft."

In the middle of the wall, there is a two-year gap with no materials pasted on; this is where the mystery man's image sits, like some weird spider. Greg turns to Sherlock. "Is this when you were away?"

A nod. "I don't know what happened to my brother while I was busy. But I do know that the blackmailer is the reason why I was called back to London."

While he is digesting this revelation, Greg's eye is caught by evidence about more recent events. Blue-tacked to the wall is a photo of the Houses of Parliament at night, accompanied by a cutting from a newspaper that details the underground carriage bomb plot. Sherlock taps the photo. "It was a scheme that even Mycroft couldn't work out. Nice and juicy, tailor-made just for me. The fact that no one was supposed to know I was still alive makes the next deduction simple: if the blackmailer knew that I was alive and what I was doing, ergo, there is a mole working in Mycroft's service or MI6 who is passing secrets onto the blackmailer."

Greg moves two steps to the right and stops at another photo of Mycroft, realising that this one is more contemporary—under this year's date. Alongside of it are photos which Sherlock must have recently taken with his phone: the agent killed in the Hackney Wick carpark, another one that Greg recognises as the Georgian Iuri Malkhaz Chkehetidze who was attacked when he and Sherlock were at the Arnsworth Castle, and lastly, a snapshot of the bloody bag opened at Ryder Lane to reveal the remains of one of Mycroft's agents. There is a map of Georgia, which Greg peers at closely to see that it is shaded with different colours denoting different linguistic groups. "What's all this, then?"

When there is no answer, Greg turns to see that Sherlock has returned to the desk and sat on it with his legs splayed for balance. His eyes are drooping shut, and his back is starting to sag.

"Oi! Stay awake; I'm not done with you. Put all this into words. And, while you're at it, explain to me what the hell you are doing in the basement of a library doing all this stuff instead of home." If he's as good a hacker as Coates believes, why couldn't he have done all this from the comfort of Baker Street, using rerouting through foreign servers to conceal his identity and what he was doing?

Sherlock's eyes slowly open wider. "My brother is an arsehole. He's been lying to me for years. I've been getting closer to the truth, but needed a bit of privacy to try to put the last bits into place."

"He's away." _And so is John, who doesn't even live at Baker Street anymore._

"I _know_. Probably in Tbilisi. But his minions are spying on Baker Street, so this needs to be done here." Sherlock's glance falls on the open box. He starts to reach for it, but Greg gets there first and slams the lid down, almost catching Sherlock's fingers.

"No way. These are not in play. Why did you even think of using again?"

"We've had this conversation before."

Greg rolls his eyes. "We're really going to do this? Okay, how about your favourite line—"_that was then, this is now_". What's making you fall off the wagon _now_?"

"I need to focus, really focus. This problem is more challenging, more difficult to think through than anything I've ever handled; it puts even Moriarty to shame. Cocaine helps me focus, the meth and MDMA kept me awake working for the past three days and nights. I know I can't keep doing this, so I used the morphine just to take a break."

"When was the last time you had anything to eat?"

Sherlock points to the coffee cup.

Greg snorts, "Eat, not drink. That's just another bloody stimulant, anyway."

"Eating slows me down, and I can hardly spare the time."

"Crash and burn, Sherlock. This binge is stopping here and now. You are coming home with me, and I'll bloody force-feed you something and handcuff you to my sofa tonight so you'll get some rest."

Sherlock groans. "No. I'm fine. I'd have woken up in a couple of hours and get back to work if you hadn't shown up and made such a racket. I need to sort this out."

"Why is this so important? And why do you think that drugs are ever going to help you? You _know_ they won't."

Sherlock shoves himself to his feet and starts shouting: "Because my brother is an idiot! He's going to get himself killed, all because he won't tell me what the hell is happening in Georgia! He's probably gone off there now, without telling me why, and he's got to stop _lying_!"

The rage is something that Greg has come to expect; drugs loosen Sherlock's inhibitions. They also lead to paranoia and delusions, and not eating anything and letting his blood sugar thus plummet is going to addle him even more.

Greg turns to look back at the wall. Is this the product of a drug-crazed mind? Or is it legitimate? Not possessing a Holmes brain, he has no way of telling.

"Here's the deal. You come home with me tonight. Tomorrow, this is off limits until I get food into you and you come down from all this shit. Then, and only then, will I come back with you here and you will take me through this slowly, explaining it so that even I, a dumb copper, can understand it. If it holds up, then I promise I'll work with you."

"I _told you_: I can't waste time doing all that." Shaking his head and flapping his hand in dismissal of Greg's concerns, Sherlock sinks back down to perch on the edge of the desk.

"If you don't, then you leave me little choice but to deal with the fact that you are guilty of breaking and entering, criminal damage to property, and possession of not one but three different types of Class A drugs. This time I don't see your brother being willing to press for the charges to be dropped. Or even showing up to bail you out. And John's on bloody Honeymoon, so don't expect him to rescue you."

"You're bluffing."

Greg knows that Sherlock is probably right. All the times in the past when he has turned a blind eye or provided a couch to come down are coming home to haunt him now. For some reason, deep in his gut, Greg knows that this time is different. Not just because John's marriage changes the dynamic, but because of what is up on the evidence wall. He dares not risk having his bluff called, so he ups the ante. "If you don't come with me, then the next call is to your brother's PA to come get you. If I don't arrest you, the alternative is going to be you wasting a whole lot more time in a secure rehab facility."

"You'd sell me out?! _You?_" Sherlock is properly outraged at the threat.

"Work with me, and it won't come to that. I'm on your side, Sherlock, but the drugs are not on."

Sherlock gets to his feet and spins away from Greg, hands tugging at his hair. Almost shouting, he wails, "I don't have time for this. I need to get this sorted before John gets back from honeymoon in Morocco."

"Why?"

"Because he needs to be far enough away from me that whoever is doing the blackmailing won't take it out on him as a way of getting me to stop."

"Is that why you wrote on the website about how you were phasing him out of your life? You think he's in danger? And you think it's bad enough that you'd take the risks that come with keeping him in the dark?" _…Again?_

Sherlock sags against the evidence wall. Wearily, he says, "Yes. And that applies to Mycroft as well. That's why I have to solve this quickly."

"Then let me help."

"Not a good idea, Lestrade. My brother has already told you that working with me is a career-limiting move. Adding a blackmailer to that mix could end badly for you as well. I have to do this on my own." Sherlock stands up straighter and turns to face Greg, determination showing in his eyes.

Greg's not buying it. "Tough shit. I'm here, and I've seen your wall art, so I'm already involved. You know you want someone in on this with you since it's so huge; you said as much on John's blog." _Though inadvertently because you were probably off your tits, judging by the all caps and the number of exclamation marks._ "Get clean, work with me, and it will be the two of us against if not the rest of the world, then at least this kingpin."

A flicker of pain moves across Sherlock's face.

Greg is so unused to seeing him show any emotion that this display makes him worry even more, so he asks, "What's wrong with that?"

"I said something similar to John when I got back. I was wrong ever to have involved him in all this. It's too risky now."

"I know you miss him; you'll have to make do with me until after the honeymoon. When he gets back, you can tell him all this."

Sherlock shakes his head. "No. He's got even more reason now to keep his distance; Mary's pregnant."

Conflicting emotions buffet Greg. On the one hand, he's delighted for John. On the other, he feels Sherlock's pain. _He thinks he's all alone now. _

"Right. That's even more reason, then, to let me help." Greg nods and picks up the wooden box. "Let's go, before that idiot guard upstairs gets antsy about wanting his pass back."

After a moment of hesitation, Sherlock shrugs, and the two men leave the room. Behind them, the lights flicker once and then the room is plunged into darkness.


	5. AWOL

"What do you mean, he's gone missing? _Again?_

Lestrade tries—but fails—to keep his impatience from boiling over into outrage.

Even so, Wiggins winces. Defensively, he snarks back, "Yeah, well, you try keeping up with him. The guy's a bloody 'oudini. I thought 'e was bedded down for the night with that new bird 'e's been shagging."

There are so many things wrong with that statement that Greg takes a moment to parse out each element. "What _bird?_"

"You know, that one from the wedding photos in the paper. She's the one arm 'n arm with 'im in front of the church."

Greg doesn't have to cast his mind back to the wedding itself; some photos had somehow been nicked from the photographer's camera at some point while it was supposed to have been in police custody as evidence in the prosecution's case against Jonathan Small. Having it splashed all over a tabloid newspaper while John and Mary were still on honeymoon had not been ideal, but at least they hadn't been around to see it.

He reaches for a name and finds it, "Janine Hawkins?" He remembers it mostly because the guest list had become a vital piece of the evidence in the case that the prosecution is building about the attempted murder of Major Sholto.

"Yeah, 'er. She's been hanging around with 'im at Baker Street since last week. Thought you knew?"

Greg takes a sip of his coffee and tries to grasp the idea. No, he can't even begin to imagine it. "No way. He's not…well, he's not into women."

"Could 'ave fooled me. Doorstep kiss and all that. Dark hair, dark-eyed bint. They look good together. She can't keep 'er 'ands off 'im."

Greg frowns. "And it's mutual?" Disbelief makes his voice climb.

"Yeah, he does a good kiss. You'd 'have almost thought he was doing it for the cameras."

"What cameras?"

Billy laughs. "Baker Street's got four cameras on it, so someone's getting an eyeful. He's lucky no papps were there. Just me to see it in person, keeping meself in the shadows of the side alley by Number 224. Just saying, it looked like something from a film."

"So, you saw him go in…did she go with him?"

Billy rolls his eyes. "Yeah, 'course; that's why I figured they was tucked up for the night. Lights were on a bit upstairs and then they went out. I checked round the back and the bedroom light was on, so I called it a night."

"Then how do you know he went out again?"

"Got a call, din I? About midnight I was just starting to relax myself, and then the phone goes. His favourite dealer—the guy at Guy's, you know the bloke I mean; the one who sells the medical quality stuff. I been bribing him…"

Greg thinks it through. Not likely. Not on the kind of money that Billy's earning. "You mean, your're blackmailing him?"

He gets a pained look from Wiggins. "Well, it's not like I got a lot of dosh, is it? Anyway, he knows I'm onto him and will turn him in if he breathes a word to Holmes. They meet up at London Bridge. As cool a handoff as I've ever seen. Even if there were station cameras on it, nobody but me would have seen it, 'cause I know what to look for. And he's good. Disguised as a homeless, grubby hoodie, tack suit, you know."

Looking at Billy, Greg knows the image is easy enough to use as a disguise.

"Shezza's a pro; knows all the camera angles. An 'e changes his posture; makes hisself look all small and young. It's weird."

Greg hears the admiration and respect in Billy's statement. "I tries me best to keep up with him but he pulled a fast one in the underground; too many damned exits; for all I know, he hopped on one of the trains."

"Did you get a photo?" Greg could use it to see if Mycroft's people can use it to track him on the TfL cameras.

"Nah. You said I was to keep him from identifying me. Can't 'ardly pull a phone out snapping photos like a tourist, can I? Just the sort of thing that would blow my cover."

Billy's use of the phrase makes Greg smile, despite his annoyance at being told that Sherlock has slipped out of his surveillance. It would appear that Wiggins is enjoying the challenge of keeping an eye on Sherlock, even if he isn't always successful.

It has been a wild ride, the past two weeks. Once he'd peeled Sherlock out of the Hunter Library and carted him home to Greg's flat, he had thought that he'd be able to keep him there. As soon as Sherlock had arrived, he'd crashed on the sofa and slept for twelve hours straight. When he'd woken him up before going to work, Greg had told him to stay put; he'd be home by five-thirty and then he wanted chapter and verse about this weird case involving the Georgians and his brother.

Alas, he'd returned home to an empty flat. When he'd gone to Baker Street, he'd found Sherlock there, acting as if he'd not been absent on a binge for days. When Greg had tried to raise the case, Sherlock had shut him down. "No, not going there." He'd cast his eyes about the flat. "The walls here have ears, Lestrade, and I have no intention of giving them anything to hear except this." He'd put on his headphones and started playing violin, totally ignoring the DI. Eventually, Greg had given up and gone home. There was only so much baby-sitting he was willing to do. He did go back to the Hunter Library to discover that Sherlock had beaten him to it—been back to the basement storage room and removed every bit of material from the evidence wall, even to the extent of re-painting the wall where he'd marked out the timeline.

Frustrated, but not entirely surprised, Greg had called Billy and paid him to resume his watching brief. "Find his new bolt hole."

Wiggins had just laughed. "Yeah, like that's gonna be easy."

oOoOoOoOo

"Not interested." Sherlock doesn't even bother to look up from his microscope. The kitchen table is littered with slides, pipettes and an intricate network of distillation equipment. There is a strong, slightly fishy odour emerging from the bubbling oily-looking liquid.

"But, it's a seven, maybe even an eight."

"Boring."

"How on earth can a murder with a body whose brain is missing be _boring_?"

"Compared to what I am working on, anything is boring." Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. "Go away."

Greg can't resist. "What are you working on?"

"None of your business."

He doesn't bother to stifle a sigh.

On the one hand, Sherlock is dressed, clean-shaven and showing no signs of dilated pupils, agitation or the lethargy that had been the case when he's found him at the Hunter Library. On the other hand, there is something slightly _off_ about the man that is bothering Greg at a deep level. He decides on a tangential manoeuvre. "Who's the girl?"

Sherlock makes a cryptic note on the pad beside the microscope and then replaces one slide with another, looking briefly down at the clock app on his phone. "What girl?" he says mildly as he returns his attention to the microscope.

"Janine, Mary's bridesmaid."

"What about her?"

"You and she have been seen together."

Sherlock looks up at the kitchen cupboards. "That's none of your business either. Why don't you go do what London pays you to do, which is investigate major crimes? Why are you cluttering up my kitchen? Go away."

"Sherlock…"

"Go away."

After a few more attempts provoke exactly the same response, Greg surrenders and decides to go away.

oOoOoOoOo

Wiggins reports a midnight flit of Sherlock twice over the past three days; both times managing to lose him. Greg can't really blame him. Sherlock's disappearing act must have been honed to an extraordinary degree during his two years away. One dispirited call to Mycroft's PA gets him a shared exasperation; no, she has no idea where Sherlock is going, and no there is no news about when her boss might be returning to the UK. "Be patient, Detective Inspector. It isn't the first time, and it's not going to be the last time; while big brother is away, little brother will play." 

By the end of the week, Greg decides he's had enough and contacts someone who should care more about Sherlock's whereabouts. If Greg remembers correctly, the Watsons are supposed to have flown back from Agadir on Saturday; he's given them Sunday off before his patience snaps. His first two texts on Monday morning go unanswered, but at lunchtime, he gets the call.

"Hello, John."

"Hi Greg."

John's voice is relaxed and upbeat. "Sorry, I couldn't ring back until now. Busy first day back at work."

He is enough of a friend not to jump straight in, so Greg takes pity and goes for a bit of small talk first. "How was the honeymoon?"

"Fantastic, brilliant. I can't remember the last time I took two weeks of holiday. To be honest, I don't think I ever did; not at school or uni—couldn't afford it back then, and well, home leave while on tour was always a pain because I knew I was heading back into a war zone. So, two weeks without any worries hanging over me, in the company of the woman I just married? Pure bliss. Switched off, tuned out and just relaxed. You should try it some time."

Greg can imagine what the two newlyweds got up to; sun, sand and sex are the traditional three S's of a honeymoon. "Mary enjoy Morocco?"

"Yeah; turns out she's been to Marrakesh, Tangiers and Fez before, but never the beach at Agadir, so she just kicked back and chilled. Long walks on a deserted beach, weather was great. She's got a tan like you wouldn't believe; all the staff here at the surgery are green with envy."

"And no consulting detective lurking in the shadows or texting you every ten minutes?"

John laughs. "No. I know you thought I was going to extremes in my secret planning, but it worked. Anyway, Mary and I had a deal. She left her phone at home and mine went with Shelia, the practice manager, on her free weekend trip to Paris to help throw the human bloodhound off the scent. She said this morning that she'd not had a single message, so I guess that means he behaved himself." John chuckles, "Maybe solving the Mayfly Man Mystery at the wedding was good enough for him."

Greg is wondering how best to break into this post-honeymoon high, without sounding too much like a Jeremiah. Perhaps he lets the silence go on too long, because John asks, "How are things with you? I'm sorry I didn't get to thank you properly for making you work on what was supposed to be a fun evening. The one thing I did while we were away was check was how James Sholto was doing at the hospital. Put in a call from the hotel, to hear the good news that he'd recovered quickly from the surgery and was discharged and back home just two days later. I hope the case against Jonathan Small hasn't kept you too busy."

"No; pretty open and shut, if you want the truth. Small's going to plead guilty, according to his brief."

"Good; that's really good. James shouldn't have to suffer the indignity of going to a trial."

"Yeah….well, that's not the reason why I'm calling."

"Oh?" There is a wariness in John's question.

"Sherlock's been…elusive."

There is a snort. "So, what's new? At least this time he's not staged a funeral."

If that is meant to be a joke, it falls a bit flat with Greg. "He's not responding to my texts. Wen round to Baker Street the other day to bring him a juicy murder and he wouldn't even look at the file. Claims he's working on something else."

"Let sleeping consultant detectives lie, Greg. Maybe a case came through the blog; I haven't looked at it for weeks. As long as he's busy with something, it'll keep him out of trouble."

"You likely to touch base with him anytime soon?"

Another snort. "Give me a break, Greg. We've hardly unpacked. Once the laundry is done, there are thank you letters to write for wedding presents. Thanks, by the way, for the set of beer glasses. That's something I will _definitely_ be putting to use. Despite Sherlock's careful attempts to sort a gift register to avoid duplications, I think we've got three toasters and a load of casserole dishes that we're going to have to return." He laughs. "I thought all the hoo-hah of the wedding would be over once we got back from the honeymoon, but it's sort of taken on an after-life. Mary's already got us booked into a bunch of dinners with people who couldn't make it to the wedding."

Greg doesn't know how to say what he needs to say, without betraying too much. He's always felt a bit awkward when it comes to understanding the relationship between Sherlock and John. All he knows is that for Sherlock, John is one of the very, very few people who matter to him. That fact gives him courage.

"On that to do list, make sure you include him. He _needs_ you, John. And it wouldn't go amiss to remind him that you've not forgotten him. Don't leave it too long."

There is an awkward pause. Then John fills it. "Of course, I won't."

Greg decides to break one confidence. "Oh, and by the way, congratulations. Sherlock said you're going to be a father."

"Yeah. That's _amazing_." John can't hide his delight.

The way he said the word makes Greg a bit sad; there was a time when that kind of excited reaction was reserved for Sherlock making one of his extraordinary deductions at a crime scene.

Before he can say anything, the doctor continues, "And he's a berk for telling you, so keep it to yourself. It's not the wisest thing to do before the first trimester—a bit like tempting fate. Mary's what they call a 'mature' mother and anything can happen, so we are trying to be sensible about this and not tell people until things settle down."

Greg's trying not to laugh as he says, "Mum's the word. I promise."

He gets the expected chuckle.

"Whoops—intercom's just gone; next patient is on his way to me. Bye for now."

When the call is ended, Greg is left on the other end of the phone line, wondering what the hell he is supposed to do now.


End file.
